


i hear the wicked get no rest (but when you do, i hope you'll dream of me)

by voxofthevoid



Series: we’re not lovers (we’re just strangers with the same damn hunger) [2]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Porn, Biting, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, D/s, Daddy Kink, Fisting, Knotting, M/M, Marathon Sex, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mild Blood, Omega Bucky Barnes, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Rough Sex, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:34:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28859664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxofthevoid/pseuds/voxofthevoid
Summary: Steve leans in and licks at the sluggishly bleeding bite mark on Bucky’s throat. Bucky instinctively tilts his head, exposing himself to Steve’s mouth; it’s pleasure and submission both, and something in Steve crows in triumph.Mine,it says, the stupid, mindless thing.He has just enough sense, now, to know that’s not quite right; Bucky’s not his and this is a mistake months in the making, but Steve’s still an alpha in rut, clinging to just a sliver of sanity, and he doesn’t stop mouthing at Bucky’s throat, lapping at bruises fresh and healing. Their bond mark is stark against Bucky’s pale skin. Steve kisses it gently, his matching mark warming.This is nothing like their last shared cycle. Steve was lost to it from beginning to end, and he doesn’t remember what Bucky was like. All he has are vague impressions of heat and skin and a deep, gravelly voice.When this is over, Bucky will say he never wants to see Steve again, and that’s fair, but this time, Steve will at least know what he’s losing. He’s not sure if that’s better or worse.-Steve’s got a past clawing him up and a future with its teeth in him—then, Bucky Barnes.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: we’re not lovers (we’re just strangers with the same damn hunger) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2025824
Comments: 332
Kudos: 1003





	1. you put a fever inside me (and i've been cold since you left)

**Author's Note:**

> This has 3 chapters; chapter 1 is mostly sex, chapter 2 is both sex and plot, and chapter 3 is tiny and mostly there to set up Part 3, which I actually wrote after Part 1 and before Part 2.
> 
> I hope you enjoy <3

Steve pulls back with bloodied lips and looks, dazed, at the trembling wreck spread out in his lap.

This late into their cycles, Bucky’s the one who’s too far gone for words. Steve was no better until a few hours ago, reduced to possessive growling while Bucky screamed his name and begged and—

His swollen knot throbs weakly, pleasure _biting_ into his gut. His dick feels like it’s about to fall off, as do half his body parts, but they’ve still got at least two more days to fuck through, and Steve knows that it won’t take more than Bucky arching his throat and whining sweetly for his blood to rush south. But that’s a while off and for now, they’re locked together, and Bucky looks half asleep, stuffed full of cock and dripping come and so obviously sated.

A low, pleased rumble escapes him at the view because he did this, _he_ got Bucky fuck-drunk and spent, and the sound elicits a faint, purr-like sound from the semi-conscious man under him.

Steve leans in and licks at the sluggishly bleeding bite mark on Bucky’s throat. Bucky instinctively tilts his head, exposing himself to Steve’s mouth; it’s pleasure and submission both, and something in Steve crows in triumph.

 _Mine_ , it says, the stupid, mindless thing.

He has just enough sense, now, to know that’s not quite right; Bucky’s not his and this is a mistake months in the making, but Steve’s still an alpha in rut, clinging to just a sliver of sanity, and he doesn’t stop mouthing at Bucky’s throat, lapping at bruises fresh and healing. Their bond mark is stark against Bucky’s pale skin. Steve kisses it gently, his matching mark warming.

He has a very vague memory of Bucky shoving Steve’s head away from his throat, maybe on the first day. He’s not sure. Ruts and heats tend to be eerily complimentary. Ruts hit hard and taper off; heats start slow and intensify. It always leaves one partner’s head a little clearer.

In theory, at least.

There was nothing like that last time. Steve was lost to it from beginning to end, and he doesn’t remember what Bucky was like. All he has are vague impressions of heat and skin and a deep, gravelly voice.

When this is over, Bucky will say he never wants to see Steve again, and that’s fair, but this time, Steve will at least know what he’s losing. He’s not sure if that’s better or worse.

His knot deflates, a moment of piercing sensation, and Steve slips out in a gush of come. Bucky moans weakly, but he’s also done for the time being, barely even twitching when Steve lays him out on the bed. He’s sprawled in their mess and so’s Steve, but the whole damn bed is drenched in sweat and sex. Steve can barely smell the stench over the combined scent of their pheromones.

Still, he gathers Bucky close, using what’s left of his strength to pull him on top of Steve. He’s a big man, almost as big as Steve, and the heavy weight of him is comforting. Bucky’s eyes flutter open, pinning Steve with a hazy, heavy-lidded gaze. He smiles, faint and sweet. Steve hasn’t seen a smile like that on Bucky’s face before, not even when they fucked the last time, both of them in their right minds for once. He doesn’t think he deserves this smile, but he drinks it in greedily anyway.

He smooths shaking fingers over Bucky’s brow, heart clenching when he rubs his face against Steve’s palm like a great cat.

He falls asleep like that, gently pinned under Bucky’s bulk and surrounded by his sweet scent.

-

He wakes to tight, clenching heat on his cock, a growl already spilling from his lips.

Bucky bottoms out with a throaty cry. He’s sopping wet, dripping even with Steve’s cock plugging him up. And god, he’s desperate, bracing shaky arms on Steve’s chest and throwing himself into a violent pace.

Steve, wide awake and hot all over, tries to be content to just watch—Bucky’s a study in sin, flushed and sweating and writhing madly on Steve’s cock—but his blood’s burning to pin this pretty thing down and take and take and—

Bucky _howls_ when Steve bodily lifts him off his cock, but it breaks into a whimper when Steve flips them over, pressing Bucky’s face into the bed. He’s _obscene_ , the muscles of his arched back taut and gleaming. Steve grabs one soft cheek and spreads him wide, exposing his wet, gaping hole. He doesn’t tease, can’t, and Bucky’s cry is drowned under Steve’s roar when he drives home.

“Impatient,” Steve growls, pulling Bucky’s head up by the hair. “Couldn’t have woken me up?”

Bucky doesn’t reply, of course he doesn’t, breaking into pieces around Steve’s plunging cock, but he reacts to Steve’s voice, keening and baring his throat, and all Steve wants is to eat this boy raw.

He bites deep and blood spills into his mouth, its metallic salt overpowered by the sickly-sweet scent clogging Steve’s nostrils. Bucky screams and tightens around him, his feverish heat burning Steve to the bone. He doubles his pace, slamming into Bucky, over and over and over, and he doesn’t try to rein in his inhuman speed and strength because Bucky can take it, he’s the only one who can take it, and Steve shoves his greedy cock deep and tears into the soft flesh of his nape, and Bucky’s cries fade into soft, incessant keening.

Steve reaches under their joined, writhing bodies and finds Bucky’s cock dripping into the sheets. He pins it to Bucky’s belly, palm cupped over it, but he doesn’t curl his fingers and stroke, doesn’t do anything but hold it there, protective and possessive. Bucky ruts into it and grinds back against Steve, but it’s a clumsy, stuttering rhythm. He jolts with every thrust, and his voice sharpens now and then, rising high like he’s about to break, but he doesn’t, just cries and clenches around Steve. His cock gushes precome, wetting Steve’s hand, and he can almost feel Bucky’s pulse around him, throbbing to their frenzied rhythm.

He pushes his hand more firmly against Bucky’s cock, squeezing it between palm and belly, and Bucky claws at the sheets and throws his head back, and his throat’s just begging Steve to close his jaws over its pale, bruised form.

Bucky mewls when Steve bleeds him, and his muscles ripple with heat.

Sticky wetness drenches Steve’s hand, and he holds Bucky’s cock and fucks him hard through it, white creeping into his vision as he’s sucked violently into that clenching body.

And then it’s over, and Bucky’s hanging limp, ass stretched wide around Steve’s cock and throat trapped in his hungry teeth. Steve licks at the fresh wound, soft and soothing. It’ll heal, it’ll all heal, but Steve’s been biting Bucky bloody since they began, making marks that won’t last but stake a claim all the same.

He licks over their bonding mark, scrapes his teeth over it as gently as he can, and Bucky shudders, whining weakly.

Steve lets him go and straightens. Bucky pillows his head on his arms. He’s still tight around Steve’s cock, soaking him in slick. It drips down his thighs, along his taint, and when Steve follows the trail with a teasing finger, Bucky tightens furiously around his dick.

His balls are a mess too. Steve rolls them in his palm, and the sound Bucky makes is barely human. There’s a plea in it, he thinks.

“I know,” Steve murmurs, though he doubts Bucky’s in a state to register it. “You need more.”

He spreads Bucky’s ass again, shuddering at the sight of him stretched obscenely wide around Steve. He traces a finger around the taut rim. It’s a dark, violent pink, fucked raw. Bucky twitches weakly at the touch but doesn’t make a sound. Maybe that’s been fucked out of him too.

He prods tentatively at it. It doesn’t look like it can fit anything else, but it _can_ ; Steve’s lost count of the times they’ve knotted, but Bucky took it all, frantic and greedy, howling as their bodies locked violently together.

Steve coats the finger in Bucky’s own slick and shoves it in.

It fits.

His cock’s a line of pulsing heat, and the swift slide of his own finger along its length is—maddening. He pushes deeper on instinct, burying those last few inches, and Bucky jolts again, shuddering inside and out. It’s a harder fit now, Bucky clamped insanely tight around cock and finger, and Steve has to pry him open wider, pushing in a second finger, then a third, until his gut’s twisted into knots of heat and Bucky’s gasping wordless cries with every breath.

Steve tries, on a mad whim, to fuck him and finger him, but the angle’s awkward and the pressure _burns_ , and he’s at the edge between one, dirty grind and the next, pulling his fingers out in time to thrust deep and shudder, knot popping into place.

Bucky sobs something that might be Steve’s name.

Steve covers him, pushing him down, blanketing his body with his own. It aches where they’re joined, the movement making Steve’s knot tug at Bucky’s abused hole. There’s a weak cry from under him, but Steve can’t tell whether it’s pain or pleasure. State he’s in, there’s probably not much of a difference between the two. Steve croons sweetly into his ear anyway; he’s too tired to whisper sweet nothings, but he tries to be sweet anyway, kissing the shell of Bucky’s ear and the parts of his face he can reach. He noses sweat-drenched hair out of the way and tucks his face into the crook of Bucky’s throat.

He exhibits no discomfort at Steve’s crushing weight, but that’s not saying much. He’s got a fat knot pressed up in him and an alpha pinning him down—of course he’s not complaining.

 _Mate_ , corrects a little voice in Steve’s head, a little too pleased for comfort.

It’s just the sex fucking with him—the sex and the scent and the second heartbeat pulsing all through Steve’s veins.

Peggy was different—

He shoves that thought away. She doesn’t deserve to be thought of while Steve’s balls-deep in another. Bucky doesn’t deserve Steve’s ghosts in the bed with them.

And maybe Steve doesn’t deserve it either, that ill-fated collision of the past clawing him up and the future with its teeth in him.

Under him, Bucky shifts, pulling his arms out from under his own body. He reaches back and clumsily pats Steve, half on his face and half in his hair. And he’s purring, a low, gentle sound meant to soothe. Steve’s not sure whether he even knows he’s doing it.

Instinct, maybe—urges older than either of them. Steve’s victim to the same with Bucky’s scent in his throat and searing want flooding his veins. They’re not animals, but they’re not isolated existences, not anymore. S.H.I.E.L.D. made sure of that, and then the two of them went about making it worse, again and again.

It could be worse; Bucky’s a good man, strong and kind, and Steve can think of worse fates than sharing a soul with him for however long.

Or maybe that’s precisely why it could be better.

Bucky purrs louder, and he’s moving now, squirming under Steve, who starts to rise to let him breathe, but Bucky’s fingers tighten in his hair, and Steve realizes, with a piercing pang, that he’s still just trying to comfort Steve, to ease the melancholy that he’s likely dripping all over the place.

“Ssh,” Steve whispers, tucking his face into Bucky’s throat again, lips puckering against the damp skin. “S’slright, sweetheart, I’m alright.”

He wills his body to relax. And it’s playing dirty, but he grinds his hips, shifting his knot inside Bucky’s feverish clutch, and fuck, that’s a double-edged blade—sharp pleasure jolting up his spine—but it works, and Bucky goes limp under him, whining softly.

Steve follows suit, soothed in spite of himself, mostly because Bucky _tried_.

Christ, he doesn’t want this lucidity, wants the sex-crazed haze back. There was none of this last time; Steve was lost to a rut delayed by seventy years and triggered by a broken bond, and then, when the whole mess of it was over, S.H.I.E.L.D. just gassed him and put him out of his misery.

He has no such luxury this time, and he wonders, morbidly curious, how Bucky felt at the beginning, when he was the one in possession of most of his mental faculties.

Not regretful, Steve hopes. Steve was the one who showed up at the door, but Bucky pulled him in and took him to bed and let Steve devour him—that has to count for something, right?

Bucky stirs again, with _intent_ this time, and his body squeezes tight around Steve, brutally quieting his every thought.

-

A heat’s waning hours are also violently demanding, and Bucky effectively fucks Steve’s brooding out of him. When he’s not feeding fingers and fist and cock to that tight, hungry hole, Steve’s feeding him more literally, with the easy snacks Bucky has stocked the room with.

Plush, pink lips part sweetly for the food, and Bucky’s tongue curls playfully around Steve’s fingers when they withdraw.

That, too, ends up with them tangled in heat, Bucky’s lips wrapped greedily around Steve’s cock, an indulgence that doesn’t last long when both their bodies have other demands.

He takes Bucky on the floor, fucking him through an orgasm and pulling out another amidst pained whimpers and manic writhing, and then Steve comes too, spilling deep in him with a groan. His knot stays dormant despite the pulsing ache of it, but Bucky’s squirming on his cock, clenching madly around Steve’s dick as if trying to milk a knot out of it.

He pulls out before that gripping heat can kill him and quiets Bucky’s complaint with his mouth.

Steve laps at the mess of slick and comes; Bucky’s hole is gaping open from Steve’s cock, and his tongue can’t be enough, but Bucky shoves back into it anyway, shuddering into a fever pitch. Their mingled scent is heavy here, utterly consuming, and Steve’s spent but his gut still tightens, fissures of heat shuddering into his cock. He shoves his face harder against Bucky’s ass, devouring with lips and tongue and a hint of teeth, and Bucky goes _wild_ , his sounds a violent blend of pleasure and frustration.

He still comes, slick gushing out of his trembling hole, making a mess of Steve. He laps it up, ravenous, but Bucky’s sobbing now, pained and needy, and it’s not mere instinct that has Steve raring to give him everything he needs.

Bucky swallows three fingers like it’s nothing, but even as his body opens up, wet and eager, he screams, back arching sharply.

Steve gently shoves him back down with a hand on his nape and keep him there as he works in another finger. That goes in easy too, a snug fit, but when he nudges his thumb against Bucky’s taut rim, Bucky’s metal fingers gouge right into the floorboard.

“Easy,” Steve murmurs, stroking a palm down Bucky’s spine, along the rippling muscles of his back. “I’ll give you what you need.”

If Bucky registers the words, he gives no acknowledgement, but the tone, at least, must get through because the tension drains out of him, bit by bit, with each stroke of Steve’s hand and every hushed, soothing sound he makes.

Bucky still screams when Steve works his fist into him, still shudders and writhes, but his cock’s dripping steadily again and his ass is greedy for something to plug it up, and in the end, Bucky’s panting and spent and sated, clenched tight around the girth of Steve’s fist.

It’s nothing like having him on his cock, his _knot_ , but there’s still a heady appeal to the sight of Bucky hanging off his fist. Steve gives it an experimental twist, and Bucky shivers violently, a broken whine escaping him.

“Ssh,” Steve croons, patting his ass and gripping his hips, tight and grounding. “I’ve got you.”

Bucky settles down and slowly, Steve coaxes him to lie flat on the ground. The floor is not the most comfortable place for this, and its chill bites into their heated flesh; waning cycle aside, Steve still can’t fucking think when Bucky’s got him by the dick. Steve tries, as best as he can with his hand caught in Bucky’s vice grip, to lie down beside him, share some of his warmth.

Bucky turns his head, half-shut eyes peering hazily at Steve. He’s gorgeous in his pleasure, and it’s not a new realization, but Steve’s helplessly mesmerized all the same. Bucky smiles, soft and sweet, and Steve’s heart thumps painfully in his chest.

-

It’s the empty bed that wakes him.

They left each other rarely in the last four days; Steve has vague memories of Bucky leading him to the bathroom and turning the shower on them both. More clearly, he remembers carrying Bucky in there and running a bath, sliding into the hot water to hold him close.

He’ll carry those for a long time.

Peggy accused him, once or twice, of being a romantic, her eyes sparkling and fond. Steve denied it each time, spilling white lies with a smile.

He can’t be thinking of Peggy. It’s not—god, it’s not _right_.

The shower’s running. Steve picks himself off the bed and ambles to the bathroom, eager and hesitant in equal measure. He’s hard, cock swaying a little awkwardly between his legs, but the urge to drive deep into warm flesh and lock them tight is much milder, barely piercing past the worry that Bucky’s back to his senses and preparing to run away.

Steve won’t blame him. It’s what they have to do. But he dreads the moment all the same.

He opens the bathroom door, and there he is, bare and beautiful. He’s turned away from Steve, both arms braced on the wall as the water sluices down his back. Steve tries not to see an invitation in that stance.

He raps his knuckles on the open door.

Bucky’s body shakes a little, but Steve’s not sure whether he’s laughing. A hand leaves the wall to wave Steve inside. He steps closer, pausing within arm’s reach.

“Bucky?”

He thinks he hears a sigh, buried under the sound of the water.

“Yeah,” he says. “Join in. I won’t bite—well, I do, but you don’t complain much.”

The joke falls a little flat. Steve tries to scrounge up a smile anyway but fails. Still, he steps closer, something in him unclenching as he’s buffeted by Bucky’s warmth and his _scent_. The water’s pleasantly hot, just for a moment before Bucky turns it off.

“Closer,” Bucky says—no, demands.

Steve snakes an arm around his waist and presses his face into Bucky’s wet hair but keeps his hips tilted carefully away. As if sensing precisely that, Bucky leans back, pushing his body flush to Steve’s. His dick settles snugly between Bucky’s cheeks, and Steve has to lock his muscles tight to stop himself from rutting against him.

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, head titled back on Steve’s shoulders, eyes closed. “I’m not done yet either. God, I’m tired.”

“Sorry,” Steve chokes out.

Bucky huffs an ugly laugh and reaches behind him, hand squirming between their bodies to grab hold of Steve’s cock. He leads it to his hole, which gives sweet and easy; he’s wet inside, sucking Steve in greedily, and his half-hearted restraint shatters in the face of that slick heat.

He thrusts, burying himself deep. Bucky groans like it hurts.

Steve stills.

Bucky opens with eyes with visible effort. He’s slightly flushed, cheeks dusted a pale pink that makes Steve want to _bite_ them.

“Sensitive,” Bucky rasps. “Starting to feel the last few days, and you’re—god, you’re so _big_.”

His voice rises in pitch, ending with a breathy gasp, and Steve presses harder into him, trying to crawl even deeper, except he can’t, he’s balls deep already, and all it does is make Bucky cry out and clench violently around him.

“F-fuck, ‘on’t—” Bucky slurs, slumping forward, almost like he’s about to fall, but Steve catches him, pushes him against the wall, and follows him dick-first.

Bucky whimpers, both hands fisted against the tiles. Steve covers with his own, coaxes them open, and links his fingers with trembling flesh and cool metal. Bucky shudders like that hurts too.

For a moment, they stay like that, tangled incomprehensibly together. A second heartbeat thrums in Steve’s blood, pulsing to the beat of his own.

“Let me,” he whispers, kissing the shell of Bucky’s ear. “I’ll be gentle.”

Bucky laughs, the sound rough and so sweet.

“No, you won’t,” he says, turning his head to flash Steve a crooked grin. “But that’s alright.”

Steve has to kiss him. Bucky gasps into it, surprise heavy on his lips, and Steve licks in, deep and dirty, and Bucky shudders against him, _around_ him; he’s a man made to be drowned in, and Steve’s got a habit of plunging deep.

He fucks Bucky like that, their fingers wound tight, their lips wet and hungry, and Bucky cries out with every thrust, soft sounds fluttering in his throat. It’s mingled pain and pleasure, and the vice-like clench of his body is trying to pull Steve in and push him out in equal measure, the demands of the heat warring with the ache of a body used and abused for days on end. Steve’s not much better, his thighs shaking as he ruts into Bucky. He’s hot all over, but it’s a feverish, unpleasant heat, only barely edged out by the building, winding pleasure in his gut.

He’s close but not quite enough. _This_ isn’t enough; Bucky’s tight around his cock and sweet against his mouth, but they’re moving in a slow, aching grind, and Steve needs—

He pulls out suddenly, and Bucky makes a soft, broken cry, tearing free of the kiss to blink big, wounded eyes at Steve. They make Steve want to kiss it all better and _eat him alive_.

Bucky grunts when his back hits the wall, but when Steve hoists him up, he’s quick to throw his limbs around Steve and cling tightly.

Steve slides back home, and Bucky throws his head back, mouth open on a wordless cry. Steve licks the sound out of his mouth, burying a moan of his own between Bucky’s warm, trembling lips.

“St-Steve, _Steve_ ,” Bucky gasps into the kiss, a hushed litany that worms its way under Steve’s skin, setting his blood to boil.

He grips Bucky tighter, pounds into him harder, his tired thighs forgotten in favor of the feverish heat of him. Steve’s name fades into high-pitched cries, until Bucky’s not kissing back so much as mewling into Steve’s mouth, but it’s good, he’s so good, and Steve burning for him, the fire in his veins rising to swallow him whole.

Bucky screams when Steve knots him, clenching all over as his own orgasm sweeps through him. He spills between them, a pretty fucking mess, and Steve laps up the tears that trickle down his cheeks. They burst on his tongue in slivers of salty heat.

They come down slowly, foreheads pressed together. It’s unquestionably intimate, different from the wet twist of his tongue in Bucky’s ass or the way they’re now locked together.

Steve nuzzles in, pressing sweet kisses to Bucky’s nose and cheek. A soft huff answers him.

“We’re trapped,” Bucky says, voice a lovely wreck, “in the goddamn bathroom.”

“No,” Steve says, taking a fortifying breath. “We’re really not.”

Bucky sucks in a sharp breath and clings tighter as Steve pulls away from the wall and starts walking. It’s a little tricky with the floor still wet and the two of them knotted, but concern for Bucky and the miracle running through Steve’s veins form a frighteningly effective combination.

By the time they reach the bed, Bucky’s suspiciously glassy-eyed, and there’s a newfound urgency in Steve’s steps.

He carefully lowers them into bed, stomach muscles going taut. It still pulls at them, a piercing ache where they’re joined. Steve knot meets the clenching resistance of Bucky’s rim and pulses hot.

Bucky gasps almost soundlessly.

Steve braces himself over him, and maybe Bucky reads the intent in his expression or maybe he’s just learned Steve over four days of back-breaking sex because he groans, a soul-deep sound, and whispers a plea that breaks in half when Steve presses his body deep into him.

It’s a dirty grinding motion; they’re stuck together, Bucky’s body as unforgiving as it’s inviting, and Steve’s knot is too big to ease out of his tightly clenched hole. But Bucky’s soaked with come and slick, and there’s just enough give for Steve to grit his teeth and _move_.

Fingers claw at his shoulder, down his back, and the sharp sting of it has Steve growling and biting and _fucking_ with bodies too tightly tied to have room for it. 

“Can’t, please, I c-can’t,” Bucky gasps, nails drawing blood. His ankles are digging into the small of Steve’s back, and his eyes are screwed shut, and he’s beautiful and breaking and Steve’s, just for now, just a little.

“You can,” Steve growls, barely recognizing his voice. Bucky thrashes and groans and tears bloody grooves down Steve’s back, and Steve repays him kind, teeth sinking deep into his chest and neck and shoulder, leaving behind angry imprints that leak red.

This is the last time, Steve’s certain. They’re running on fumes, their cycles almost at an end, and he doesn’t have the slightest clue where they go from here, but he knows they won’t be walking the same road.

This is the last time, and Steve wants to make it count.

 _Remember this_ , he doesn’t say, but he bites Bucky’s mouth bloody and makes him scream over the knot tearing him open, pressing hard into the warm places inside of him as if that will make these memories sink through his flesh and settle in his bones.

 _Remember me_ , he doesn’t beg because he knows, with damning certainty, that Bucky can’t forget the heart pulsing to the beat of his own even if he wants to.

Steve doesn’t want a bond. He doesn’t want to keep a mate who’s half a stranger.

But he wants the savage simplicity of a soul tangled with his, and he wants the long-lost chance to have known this beautiful boy on his own merits. He can’t have either, and he buries the aches in Bucky’s yielding flesh, pushing and pulling until he arches up against Steve in a violent, screaming climax that pulls Steve right over the edge with him.

-

A brief, silent eternity later, Steve asks, “What now?”

Bucky, clad in a turtleneck that hides his bonding scar and several healing bruises, doesn’t meet Steve’s eyes when he answers.

“Now, I go far, far away.”

It’s a promise. Steve can tell.

He offers one of his own.

“I won’t look for you.”

Bucky almost smiles.

-

The first time—after S.H.I.E.L.D. and his rut and the first, cold shock of the _future_ —Steve threw himself into learning all he could. He read, tried in vain to run himself ragged in the gym, learned to use technology with stumbling steps, and read some more, all the while dodging S.H.I.E.L.D.’s agents.

Then the aliens came and that, at least, was simple.

Steve fights to protect—it’s who he is.

It ended with his mate-but-not’s scent thick in his nostrils and his rut clawing up his insides and days spent calling out for a man he barely knew. Steve didn’t know James ‘Bucky’ Barnes, but his body burned bright for him.

And afterward, striking up unlikely, slightly desperate friendships with Tony and Natasha, he learned to sweep his apartment for little devices unlike anything he ever saw the SSR use, much like most of the future’s technology.

He tried, and mostly succeeded, in thinking of this as _his_ present, not merely the future. He got decent, if not good, at ignoring the warmth of the second scar on his throat, on the other side of Peggy’s cold, dead mark.

He drove around America, saw places he never had, and did things he couldn’t before. He turned away from inviting eyes in bars, and when he told the bolder ones that was taken, he didn’t even sound very bitter.

And then—

Bucky, again and again.

This time, he doesn’t have the luxury of losing himself in this brave new world.

-

He mopes around in the tower. Well, that’s the gist of Tony’s phrasing. Steve doesn’t quite have his knack for colorful language. And he denies it to Tony’s face, but Steve knows he’s not wrong.

How long will it take for the bond to break?

It may have been a year, initially, but since then, they’ve fucked twice, one during their synced cycles, and that won’t help. They knew that. _Steve_ knew that when he let his smaller brain convince him to run to Bucky’s place in Brooklyn, where S.H.I.E.L.D. had placed him like an attractive offering.

Bait, as if he and Steve were pawns in some game.

His blood still boils at the thought of it, but the opportunity to punch Fury in the face isn’t worth the pain of interacting with that rat bastard, so Steve takes to pulverizing the punching bags in Tony’s fancy gym.

When the third one hits the floor, breaking apart, a soft ‘ouch’ comes from behind him.

Steve whips around.

Natasha quirks an elegant eyebrow at him. She’s a brunette today, her hair styled in a spiky bob. Steve’s learned not to ask.

“Natasha,” he greets cautiously because friends or not, caution is always wise with her.

“Steve,” comes the warm answer, which makes Steve feel like a right heel for a second before he sees the amused glint in her eyes. “I don’t think those are a very good match for you. Should I volunteer?”

“To…be my punching bag?”

She snorts.

“No, not my thing, though I know someone who might have.”

She says that with a crooked grin, a challenge tucked into the edges of it. Steve locks his jaw and does not ask. Her smile evens out after a moment, the expression softer; Steve wishes he knew whether to trust it.

“Let’s spar,” she says. “It’ll be good for you. Can’t have those skills getting rusty.”

“Seventy years in the ice didn’t manage,” he points out drily.

“Ah, but why risk it? C’mon, I’m more fun than punching things that won’t punch back.”

That _is_ a compelling argument.

They go a few rounds. Steve wins, but Natasha’s a skilled opponent, with near-absolute control over her body. She contorts in ways that makes Steve wince and lands blows that are sure to bruise. He has to hold back his strength because he can crush bones with little thought, but she still lets him throw himself into it, losing his head to sweetly controlled violence.

Once it’s over by mutual, unspoken understanding, they sprawl out in the mats, pants filling the air.

“You’re like a goddamn _tank_ , Rogers,” Natasha gasps.

“Beat your ass a couple of times and we’re on a last-name basis again?”

She swats at him.

“Fuck you, _Steve_ ,” she says sweetly.

Steve laughs. The sound’s unfamiliar, crawling up his throat and spilling from his lips, shaking his whole damn body. It feels like he hasn’t laughed in a long time, which is not true, probably—who even knows.

In the ensuing silence, he can feel Natasha’s stare boring holes into the side of his face but doesn’t turn to look at her.

After a while, she says, “Tony says you’ve been moping.”

“Those his exactly words?”

“Probably not. Pepper told me he said you’re moping.”

“And what does Pepper think?”

“Well, she phrased it more nicely.”

“The future’s full of nosy fucks.”

“ _Language_ , Captain, my virgin ears.”

“I saw Clint last week, Natasha. There’s nothing virgin about you.”

She laughs louder than he’s ever heard from her, the sound rough and unpolished. _Real_ , he dares hope.

“I like you, Steve,” she says. “But I still wouldn’t be saying this without permission. Bucky quit S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Steve freezes.

He sits up, heart pounding, but Natasha remains sprawled beside him, staring up at the ceiling like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

“What?” he asks sharply.

She shrugs and though she’s not looking at him, Steve has the sense that she’s cataloguing every one of his reactions.

“He called in to extend his leave of absence. Sort of. It’s complicated. Anyway, Fury was…displeased. And Bucky’s not the kind of guy to lose his temper easily, despite all the”—she waves her hand vaguely—“murder strutting and assassin aesthetic. But when he does, it’s glorious. Quit on the spot. Hill did some damage control, but still, Bucky won’t come back.”

“Fuck.” Steve rubs his hand over his face, fingers digging into his temples. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Whatever did _you_ do?”

He doesn’t answer that. He can practically hear her roll her eyes.

“I’m not saying this so you can mope more, Steve. I’m telling you—well, I’m suggesting nicely that you use it.”

Steve stares at her. She stares back, eyes unusually intense, and he can almost imagine her as her namesake, perched at the center of a sprawling web.

“Use what?” he murmurs, wary of the answer.

She smiles. It’s not a particularly pleasant expression, lending sharp edges to the lovely lines of her face. But it is, Steve thinks, an honest expression, and he likes it a little, just for that.

“You’re a good man,” Natasha tells him, with a gravity the words don’t usually warrant. “S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t good, Steve. It’s _necessary_. But it’s not good. Neither am I. Bucky either, though he tries more than most of us.”

Steve sits up because this is not a conversation he wants to have lying in a pool of his own sweat, and Natasha apes him. They end up cross-legged on the mats, facing each other.

“If this is a, uh, shovel talk, then you’re pretty late.”

She narrows her eyes at him.

“Don’t play dumb, Rogers.”

He huffs.

“Don’t beat around the bush, Romanoff. Or are secret agents allergic to telling things plainly?”

“It’s like you haven’t even met Clint.”

They both grin, and Steve’s sure he sees some of the tension leave her shoulders; he just doesn’t know why she’s letting him see it.

“Fine, I’ll be plain,” she says long-sufferingly. “Just this once because it’s important.”

“Duly noted.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. needs you more than you need them. With Bucky gone, they don’t have a supersoldier in their ranks. Use that.”

For a moment, Steve regrets demanding she be direct. If she kept hinting and prodding, at least he could have remained stubbornly ignorant.

“I’m not joining, S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Natasha frowns.

“Oh, put away that face.”

“What face?”

She waves a hand at him.

“All disappointed and, well, _you_. I know your issues with them. It’s reasonable. And I’m not telling you to join them.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“ _Use_ them,” Natasha stresses, gleaming eyes narrowed at him. “S.H.I.E.L.D. may not be heroes, but they do good work a lot of the time. And you—you’re losing your mind, brooding in this tower without a purpose. Your American road trip bring you any peace, Steve?”

He winces and bites his tongue before he can lash out, but judging by the hard, satisfied look in her eyes, she got the reaction she wanted anyway.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. is half the reason I don’t have any peace,” he says acerbically.

“Bullshit,” she counters, vehement enough that Steve’s startled into silence. “They’ve made you angry. But you were lost well before.”

He leans in; he’s careful about it because they’re both alphas, stinking up the place with sweat and pheromones, but Steve is bigger and stronger, and it’s made him conscious of his power the way that little spitfire didn’t have to be.

She doesn’t flinch even when they’re nose to nose.

“And how,” he asks softly, “would you know that, Natasha?”

“You were my mission.”

And it’s not a surprise, not really. Steve’s not even disappointed in her, no matter what his expression. But the hurt—well, he wasn’t expecting that to sting this much.

He pulls back, but her hands shoot out to grab his face, keeping him uncomfortably close. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she’s about to kiss him, which is mildly horrifying. Unlike Bucky, Natasha is just similar enough to Peggy to probably give Steve an existential crisis.

Thankfully, she doesn’t do anything except hold him there, close enough to see his own reflection in her pupils.

“ _Were_ , Steve,” she says quietly. “You’re my friend. And I don’t say that lightly.”

“But you’ve done your fair share of following me around.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t notice you.”

“Well, duh. You caught the rest. It’s why they sent me. You think the Black Widow doesn’t have better things to do than stalk a low-priority target?”

“I don’t know the Black Widow that well, but I wouldn’t put it past Natasha Romanoff to stalk me for my own good.”

She throws her head back and laughs. Steve straightens up, rubbing the back of his head, pleased despite everything at making her laugh like this.

“It wasn’t for your own good,” she says, grinning widely, eyes all crinkled. “That’s why I stopped. And you’re distracting me, Steve.”

“This seemed a more pleasant thread than you wanting me in S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Oh, I don’t. You’d set the whole thing on fire at this rate. Work _with_ them, not for them. Sure, the Avengers handle end-of-the-world kind of bullshit, but that doesn’t come around every day.”

“Which we’re grateful for,” he says pointedly and gets a suspiciously angelic smile in response.

“Yes, yes. But you need something to do, noble hero.”

“Doesn’t have to be S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“No, but they’re your best bet. They have intel, resources…and you have leverage.”

“If they’re so desperate, why’d they let Bu—Barnes go?”

Natasha’s kind enough not to acknowledge the slip.

“They didn’t. He just didn’t give them much of a choice. They own him, technically—his arm, especially. You’d be familiar with that.”

It’s not a question. Steve answers anyway, voice dipping into a growl.

“I do.”

She smiles, sharp and toothy.

“It stop you from doing what you had to?”

“Yes.” Honest answer, burns his tongue. “I let it, for a while. And then I couldn’t.”

“He did too,” she says. “And now he can’t. We all have our lines in the sand.”

“Should you be telling me this?”

“It’s for a good cause. He’ll approve.”

“I doubly he’ll approve of me working with S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“No, but he’ll be glad you’re not being a sad sack of shit. His words, not mine.” She smiles when he sees all the questions Steve’s biting back. “Yes, he told me to keep an eye on you. Sounds familiar?”

_Is—is he okay?_

_Why wouldn’t he be?_

_Yes. Right. I’m glad he’s okay._

He’s had a hundred such conversations with both Natasha and Clint. He can’t not care. It’s nice, though, to know the sentiment is reciprocated somewhat.

“I still think this is a bad idea,” Steve says because S.H.I.E.L.D. is less of a verbal landmine than Bucky Barnes.

“Consider it. It’s all I’m asking.”

Steve gives her a terse nod.

-

He considers it. Three more punching bags die inglorious deaths.

-

“You’ve got some _nerve_ , Rogers.”

Steve blinks placidly at Fury, who seems greatly tempted to reach across the table and strangle him. Behind him, the ever-present Hill looks very tired and supremely unimpressed, though Steve can’t tell whether that’s directed at him, both him and Fury, or life in general.

“Take it or leave it,” Steve says.

“The hell made you think this was a good idea?”

“You,” Steve says, and it’s only half a lie. “If you didn’t want me to think you were desperate, you shouldn’t have pulled all the shit you did.”

If Fury scowls any more, his eyebrows are going to sink through his skull.

“Shit you were pissed about,” Fury points out. “Changed your tune pretty fast. What, Stark Tower not entertaining enough for you?”

“Avengers Tower,” Steve corrects automatically, Tony echoing it in his head. “And that’s none of your concern. Yes or no, Fury—answer’s simple enough.”

“Captain America, a _freelance_ agent,” Fury says, stressing the word like it has personally offended him. “Can you even imagine the shit I’ll get for this, Rogers?”

“Somehow, I can’t see you as the kind of person who cares.”

That pulls the faintest smile out of Hill. Fury just heaves a deep sigh.

“If you do,” Steve says mildly, “you can just say no.”

And there it is, that burning glare.

Steve knows Fury won’t say no; he knew it the moment he put forth his proposal, refused any compromise, and didn’t find himself thrown bodily out of Fury’s office.

-

They issue him an apartment in D.C.

Steve categorically refuses to leave New York. He’s not attached per se. It’s not bad in the tower; the residential floors are quiet and spacious enough that Steve can go days without seeing another soul. Pepper and Bruce are lovely people, and Tony’s grown on him like a particularly stubborn strain of moss.

It's not _home_ , but home’s another place, another time. It’s good though. It’s even better than Brooklyn because there are less ghosts.

His refusal is mostly just spite.

“I am _not_ one of your agents,” he tells Hill after a call where she’s persuasive and demanding in turns. “There’s a goddamn signed contract proving it. Don’t try this shit, Hill.”

Hill sighs, and all of a sudden, she’s calm and when she speaks, her words have none of her earlier fire.

“Who knew Captain America swore so much.”

If anything, she sounds amused. It reminds him a little of Natasha, the way she wears a hundred skins. But where Steve’s fond of Natasha, Hill just gets under his skin.

“ _Goodbye_ , Hill,” is all he says, hanging up.

The apartment’s still there, but he stays in New York. And when he has to go to the Triskelion, he stays over and pretends he hasn’t seen his pretty alpha neighbor in the family albums Peggy shows him in some of her more lucid moments.

He finds but doesn’t remove the bugs, but he does call in Natasha for a more thorough sweep; she’s more immersed in this sort of technology than he is, and a part of him just wants her company while they drink and eat amidst careful conversations that leave half the words unsaid.

It's not all bad. Steve has a gaping hollow in his chest and twin scars on his throat, one hot and the other cold. He wants things to punch, and S.H.I.E.L.D. is only too happy to provide.

-

Another rut tears through him, and he spends a week howling for a man he has no right to want.

Steve emerges on the other side of it angrier than ever. For a while, Hill and Fury even stop pushing.

-

He’s in Naples, sprawled in a hotel bed after a solo mission that ended early in painfully anti-climactic fashion, and someone knocks on his door.

Steve’s on his feet in seconds, shield in hand, because it’s a rundown hotel tucked into a corner of the city, and he shouldn’t have visitors. Could be S.H.I.E.L.D., pulling its semi-regular bullshit, or could be worse; maybe he’ll get to work out some frustration after all.

The smell hits him first.

Bucky Barnes’s baby blues blink sweetly at him.


	2. take your whole life (then you put a line through it)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You deserve better,” Bucky says, choking down memories of a cold bed and his empty, aching body. “ _I_ deserve better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to add a tag—Daddy Kink—when I posted the last chapter. I’d missed it while scanning the chapters for stuff to tag. Since it's not everyone's thing, just pointing it out now!

Steve looks like he’s seen a ghost.

Guilt surges up, but Bucky smothers it before it can show on his face. This is for a good cause. Steve will understand.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

Steve closes his eyes, then opens them, and Bucky can’t read minds, but he’s pretty sure Steve’s checking if he’s dreamed him up.

“I’m real,” Bucky says quietly. “And I’m sorry, Steve. But this is important.”

“It’s not time for our next cycle.”

“I know.” Bucky grimaces, remembering the last one all too well. “I’d like to do this before that.”

“Do what?”

“I’ll tell you,” Bucky says softly, curling his fingers so he won’t reach out and try to smooth away Steve’s frown. “Can I come in though?”

Steve nods jerkily and steps back; Bucky notices the shield in his hand. Steve catches him watching and shrugs, setting it down.

“Wasn’t expecting visitors,” he says gruffly.

“Ah. Yeah. Sorry.”

It’s weak, watery apology that doesn’t mean anything, but Bucky can’t seem to keep his mouth shut. Thankfully, Steve doesn’t react beyond another curt nod.

The ensuing silence is suffocating.

 _Maybe I should just fuck him_ ; the thought rises unbidden, and Bucky crushes that too, but he is acutely aware that each time one of them showed up at the other’s door, they wound up in bed, which somehow made talking easier.

Bad fucking idea, but god, Steve looks—

Tired and wary and sad, but none of that the dampens the intensity of how he pulls Bucky in. It’s not just sex, which would at least make things uncomplicated. Bucky wants to press close to his body and bury his face in Steve’s throat, drag him deep into his lungs.

His bonding scar aches, a sweet, pulsing heat that Bucky valiantly tries to ignore, same way he’s tried and failed to ignore Steve running through his veins.

“Bucky,” Steve says, and god, Bucky wants to hate the way he says Bucky’s name, like it’s something precious and breakable. It makes Bucky _feel_ breakable. “Why are you—it’s not that I’m not happy to see you, just—”

“Are you?” Bucky cuts in despite knowing better.

Steve freezes, visibly discomfited. It’s an odd view, this hulking man curling into himself, not quite sure what to do with his eyes, his hands. Bucky wants to walk over and pull those big, warm arms around his body, wants to tell Steve to just look at him, swallow him.

This is why he ran.

“I am,” Steve says in the end, pained. “I’m glad you’re well. But why are you here? _How_ are you here?”

“Nat told me where to find you.”

For a single moment, Steve looks betrayed, and then he hides it behind a violently blank expression, and Bucky just deepthroated his foot, didn’t he?

“She didn’t want to,” he blurts out. “She wouldn’t—she wouldn’t, Steve. She only caved in the end because I told her why I wanted to find you.”

Narrowed eyes examine him, and Bucky tries very hard to wear a piece of his heart on his sleeve.

“Why?” Steve asks, dangerously soft.

 _Be careful_ , Nat said after a moment of audible hesitance. _He’s been…very angry_.

_At me?_

_The ego on you, Barnes. No, not at you._

She didn’t elaborate even when he pushed, but Bucky’s been thinking of it since then.

“I found someone to break the bond.”

Bucky grimaces the moment the words are out. He meant to present it a bit more tactfully, but pinned under those damned, demanding eyes, the unadorned truth slipped right out.

Steve, for a moment, looks like someone sucker-punched him.

“Someone to break the bond,” he echoes faintly. “The future has _that_?”

Bucky laughs, a harsh bark. Steve flinches, and Bucky swallows the rest of it, ignoring the way it scours his throat like broken glass.

“Sorry. No, not—not exactly. She’s a…witch.”

“A witch,” Steve repeats. He grinds the heel of his hand into his brow, and Bucky plants his feet so he won’t do something phenomenally stupid. “Sure, why not? Aliens, gods, flying men—why not witches?”

“If it helps, I don’t think she’s literally a witch. More like us.”

Steve’s eyes sharpen, and oh, there he is, Captain America.

“I don’t know details,” Bucky says before Steve can ask. “Heard some rumors of human experimentation and some freaky powers. Sokovian, but she’s settled in England now. As far as I know, the girl’s trying to mind her own business and help people.”

“Sounds like the kind of thing S.H.I.E.L.D. would be all over.”

“Well, I don’t work for S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Bucky snaps.

Steve gives him a bitter, twisting smile.

“I do.”

God, this bastard.

“No. You don’t either.”

“Natasha told you.”

“She gave me the gist of it. I could put the pieces together, Steve. You wouldn’t choose to be one of them, not really.”

Steve takes a step closer, quick and intent, and Bucky doesn’t know whether to match him or flatten himself against the wall—

—or drop to his knees, _fuck_.

He stays where he is, utterly still, but Steve doesn’t come any closer. Bucky tells himself he’s not disappointed.

“You sound very sure,” he tells Bucky, head cocked to the side, and Bucky doesn’t know whether this is Steve Rogers or Captain America or some unholy amalgamation of the two, but whatever it is, he’s making Bucky feel…things.

And then Steve’s words actually register.

“I am,” he says. “I don’t know you that well. But you’re a good man, Steve. S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn’t be the place for you. It wouldn’t fit.”

Steve’s the one who laughs this time, and Bucky’s the one who flinches. Steve stops and looks away, releasing Bucky from his spearing gaze.

“Natasha said something similar. You’re not wrong. What can she do, this witch of yours?”

The non sequitur is frustrating for reasons Bucky can’t pinpoint, but he came here for a reason.

“Break the bond, like I said. I don’t know how it works. But she’s legit, I promise.”

“Why, Buck?”

It’s barely a whisper, and Steve’s eyes are painfully gentle, but Bucky can hear all the unasked questions.

_Why bother, why not just wait, why come here, why—_

_Why won’t you just leave it be?_

Or maybe it’s Bucky asking all those questions, again.

The answers are just as familiar.

“Because we deserve better, Steve. We didn’t choose this. We shouldn’t have to live with it.”

“No,” Steve agrees heavily, and god, those eyes burn Bucky to the bone. “But it will die on its own.”

“And how much will we hurt before it does? How was your last rut, Steve?”

Steve gives him a grim smile and doesn’t answer.

“You deserve better,” Bucky says anyway, choking down memories of a cold bed and his empty, aching body. “ _I_ deserve better.”

Steve softens, all his edges melting away, and god, no, Bucky can’t handle this. He stumbles forward, and Steve swoops in, pulling him close and holding him tight, and why did Bucky fight this, why did he—

“Alright,” Steve says. “We’ll go to her.”

Bucky curls into him more, trying to make himself small enough to fit inside the curve of Steve’s throat.

“Just like that?” he manages to ask.

Steve’s palm runs down Bucky’s spine, a sweet, claiming pressure even through his clothes.

“Yeah, Buck. Just like that.”

-

Bucky tries not to laugh at Steve’s wide-eyed stare.

“Not what you expected?” he asks, smiling innocently when Steve narrows his eyes at him.

“It’s a bookstore.”

“Well, what did you expect? Wanda’s Dubiously Legal Bond-Breaking Services?”

“You’re hilarious, Barnes,” Steve drawls. “You been here before?”

“Yep. Made sure it’s her. Talked a bit. She’s nice.”

He steps toward the front door, but Steve catches his arm. It’s a light pressure, and Steve lets go the moment Bucky stills, but he can still feel that warmth sinking through his sleeve, branding his skin.

“Yeah?” he asks gruffly.

“Why come to me?”

“What do you mean?”

“She must be able to break the bond with just you. Can’t see her getting much of a business otherwise.”

It’s easy to underestimate Steve’s sharp mind. Bucky doesn’t know why; he _knows_ Steve’s not all empty brawn and alpha hormones, but he still—

No one man should be the whole damn package. It ain’t right, and Bucky’s heart hurts sometimes.

“She could. She would,” Bucky answers, not looking at Steve. “And I—I did think about it. But this isn’t a bond _you_ forced on me. I don’t know what it will feel like, when it breaks, but I know it’ll hurt. Wouldn’t have been fair for me to do it without warning you.”

There’s a sharp exhale from behind him.

“Thank you,” Steve says softly.

Bucky still can’t bring himself to look at Steve.

“I mean, I knew you wouldn’t say no. That’s part of it too.”

“Did you? You looked pretty nervous at my door, Buck.”

Bucky very firmly tells himself that Steve’s soft, fond _Buck_ doesn’t make fireworks dance in his blood.

“It’s not an easy conversation, pal. But I didn’t doubt your ridiculous moral compass. Now, c’mon, we have an appointment to keep.”

The bookstore is not just a front; there are shelves filled with English, Russian, Polish, and Sokovian works, with cozy little chairs and tables scattered amidst them. It’s very warm, the kind of place where you could relax with a coffee. 

The person at the counter isn’t the old beta from last time. It’s a young omega with white-blond hair and piercing blue eyes that scan the two of them a little too intensely. He looks a bit familiar.

“Can I help you?” he asks with the same, soft accent Wanda has.

“We’re here to see Wanda Maximoff.”

A pale eyebrow arches up.

“Is she expecting you?”

“Yes.”

It’s a woman who answers—Wanda, her head peeking out the back door. She nods at Bucky and gives Steve a lingering look before vanishing.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” asks front-desk guy. “Go.”

“This is almost more surreal than the aliens,” Steve mutters under his breath.

“It’ll get weirder.”

Bucky manages to hold back laughter at the look on Steve’s face.

The backroom isn’t quite as welcoming as the bookstore. It’s also not some sort of stereotypical witch lair. Wanda’s seated behind a table with two chairs in front, the whole set-up fairly business-like.

Bucky sits down, and Steve follows with obvious hesitance.

“It’s good to see you again,” Wanda greets Bucky before turning to Steve. “And you must be the alpha.”

“Steve, please,” he says, a bit pained.

“Not a fake name?” she asks, eyebrow arching the same way the omega’s did earlier, and Bucky’s got an inkling, now, why he looked familiar. “You should be more careful, Captain.”

Steve shows no surprise at being recognized. He must be used to it. Bucky, who was with S.H.I.E.L.D. from age twenty-five, swallows his quiet horror.

“Bucky said you were discreet. I’m inclined to trust him.”

She smiles warmly.

“I am, do not worry. Still, this is an unusual situation. Not because of who you are. It’s not often a bonded pair comes to me.”

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs. “You’ve said.”

“Why?” Steve asks.

“Take a guess, Steve,” Wanda tells him, same as she did to Bucky last time.

For a moment, Steve is silent. Then a faint smile flickers across his face.

“Bonds break on their own. If both parties are consenting, it can be managed…easily, if not painlessly.”

“Exactly.”

“But it’s not impossible if just one party wants out,” Steve says, stare fixed on Wanda. It’s a compelling expression, and Bucky can’t fucking look away.

“Impossible? No,” Wanda agrees. “But not everyone can stay away from an uncooperative partner for a year or more. They can’t always hide. What are their options, Steve?”

“Not a lot that’s particularly effective.”

Wanda smiles again; there’s an edge to it this time.

“Give me your hands,” she says. “The right one, please, James.”

They comply. Bucky’s quicker to do it, Steve copying him a second later. It’s clear he’s mostly following Bucky’s lead here, watching Wanda with wary eyes. It’s trust, too, not for her but for Bucky, and that sits heavy somewhere to the left of his chest.

Wanda circles both their wrists with thumb and forefinger, closing her eyes. Bucky almost jumps when an unnatural red mist starts snaking up their arms. He can feel Steve tense up beside him.

The mist continues to climb up, twisting over his arm and sliding under the sleeve of his t-shirt, but he can’t feel a thing. He can see it touching his skin, but close his eyes, and he can’t even tell.

It’s eerie, unsettling.

A glance at Steve’s face shows Bucky’s discomfort mirrored.

When Wanda opens her eyes, a tense eternity later, her irises are glowing red.

Steve very slowly turns his head and gives Bucky a _look_. He makes a vaguely helpless expression in return.

_I didn’t know either._

Steve’s eyes narrow. Bucky can practically hear him say, _We’ll talk about this later_ , and it’s fucking weird, being able to read Steve’s face so well.

“Neither of you are quite human,” Wanda says suddenly, effectively pulling both their attention to her. “Not anymore.”

The red fades out of her eyes, leaving behind warm brown that’s no less keen for it.

“Is that a problem?” Bucky asks, and even he’s not sure whether he’s seeking reassurance or issuing a challenge.

“Not for this,” she says placidly. “Not for me. Neither am I, you see. This isn’t your first lost bond, is it, Steve?”

The air between them thickens unpleasantly.

“I think you already know the answer.”

“I need to confirm it,” she says, not unkindly.

“Yes.” Steve’s face is drawn tight, lips bloodless and thin. “But I wasn’t awake for it last time.”

Cold realization sinks into Bucky’s bones.

The ice. Steve lost his mate while he was in the ice.

Jesus Christ.

Wanda, to her credit, does not probe further.

“You still have an idea of the…aftermath.” She looks at Bucky. “You don’t.”

He shakes his head.

She nods and lets go of their arms. Bucky snatches it back a little too quickly, but if she’s offended, she doesn’t show it.

“It will not be pleasant. Not matter how much the two of you want this broken—and you do, I can tell—it will hurt worse than nearly anything you’ve felt. There is nothing I can do to ease that. And afterward, you will be…empty. I can’t help with that either.”

She’s practically reciting the information, rote and with the full knowledge that neither of them will change their minds.

“Any good news?” Bucky asks lightly, trying to muster a smile.

“Some,” is the surprising answer. “You care for each other. Stay together, for a while, after it’s broken. It will help.”

“Won’t that be counterproductive?” Steve asks, echoing Bucky’s own doubt.

“You’d think so,” Wanda says, smiling. “But no. A clean break is not the best idea when we’re dealing in souls. Not everyone has this luxury. But you do. Use it well.”

In the silence that follows, neither Steve nor Bucky looks at each other.

-

Bucky booked them different rooms because that seemed prudent, but Steve doesn’t look surprised when he finds Bucky at his door in the middle of the night.

He steps back silently. He’s still fully dressed, and so is Bucky, but it’s not very comforting to know Steve’s as sleepless as he is. They have another appointment with Wanda tomorrow evening, but this time, she’s coming to them.

After hesitating a moment, Bucky steps inside, closing the door behind him.

“Déjà vu,” Steve says lightly.

“You’re using that wrong,” Bucky says because he just _loves_ eating his own foot.

“Am I?” Steve asks, grinning for some reason. He’s blinding, and Bucky can’t look away, though he doesn’t know why that makes Steve’s expression shift to concern. “You alright, Buck?”

“No,” he says honestly. “Are you?”

He can see Steve’s tempted to lie. But he doesn’t.

“No. Not really. Think it would have been kinder if she got it over with today.”

“She’s a busy lady,” Bucky says automatically. “But yeah. The waiting—it’s not fun.”

“You’ve been waiting more than me.”

“Nah. It was different. I had to come find you. Gave me purpose.”

“Thank you for that.”

“You said that already, Steve.”

“Well, I want to say it again,” Steve says, smiling, eyes crinkling, his whole expression soft and warm and everything Bucky’s been dreaming about.

Bucky doesn’t think. If he had, he wouldn’t have taken those three steps to Steve and pulled him into a hard, desperate kiss.

And Steve—

Steve kisses back, swallowing the invitation in Bucky’s parted lips and licking in deep, and god, Bucky’s missed the taste of him, been haunted night and day by the scent clinging stubbornly to the insides of his nostrils.

Steve’s the one who pulls away, as violently as he gave in to the kiss, and he’s flushed and gleaming, staring down at Bucky with eyes gone dark.

“We can’t,” he gasps.

“No,” Bucky agrees. “No, but—”

Steve licks the rest of it from his mouth, and Bucky’s grateful for that. He doesn’t know how to justify this, and knowing he has to stop doesn’t mean he wants to.

“One last hurrah,” he says in the end, panting against Steve’s mouth. “It can’t hurt.”

Steve’s pained expression says he can think of so many ways it can, but when Bucky drops to his knees, the lines of his face shift into something dark and gaping and hungry. He’s wearing jeans that cling to his legs, and it’s a drastic change from the grandpa clothes he favored the last time Bucky saw him. He runs his hands down the smooth denim, sinking his fingers into powerful thighs, feeling warm and weak all over.

There’s already a telltale bulge at Steve’s crotch, and Bucky leans into nuzzle at it, peering up at Steve to gauge his reaction.

Lust-blown eyes meet his own. Fingers slide into his hair and grip tight.

“Don’t tease,” Steve rasps.

Bucky grins, undoes Steve’s fly with his teeth, and it’s tricky but worth it to see Steve’s eyes glaze over. There’s a damp patch on his plain boxer-briefs. Bucky mouths at him over the thin fabric, gut clenching tight at the musky scent that envelops his senses.

Steve’s fingers tighten in his hair.

“I didn’t get to do this last time. _Properly_ ,” he adds, seeing the protest forming on Steve’s tongue. “Can’t have you thinking I got no technique.”

Steve laughs and sounds a little like he’s dying.

“No,” he chokes out. “Can’t have that.”

Bucky slides his underwear down, inch by inch, and a part of him wants Steve to get impatient and shove it down his throat, but equally strong is the desire to take his time and make it last because Steve—god, Steve deserves something good, and this is all Bucky can give him.

But the little monster he frees does make a compelling case for just choking on it.

“Hello, daddy,” Bucky murmurs, throat already aching.

Above him, Steve makes a quiet, croaking noise. Bucky looks up, and _oh_ , he knows that expression.

“Yeah?” he asks, grinning. “You like that?”

Steve gives his hair a vicious tug, his face bright red.

“Just put your mouth on my dick, Barnes.”

Never let it be said that Bucky Barnes can’t follow orders.

Steve’s one hell of a mouthful, and Bucky barely makes it halfway before it hits the back of his throat, making him choke. Steve curses and tries to pull out, but Bucky only pauses to swallow once before chasing him, hands clamping down hard on Steve’s hips. Steve groans, low and deep, when Bucky takes him in again, tongue curling around the leaking head. The taste of him is sharp and searing, and god, Bucky’s underwear is soaked.

Steve must be able to smell it, how _wet_ he is. Bucky can’t smell anything but Steve, drowning pleasantly in the heavy musk of him.

Inch by inch, he takes Steve into his mouth, his throat, and it makes his throat burn and eyes water, but Steve’s hand is firm and steady at the back of his head, tethering Bucky to his skin.

His nose meets the thatch of dark gold hair at the base. Bucky closes his eyes.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Steve blasphemes reverently. “Sweetheart, your _mouth_.”

Steve sounds wrecked already. It can’t have been easy for him either, these last few months. Bucky wants to make up for it, give him pleasure until he forgets the pain of his lonely ruts and the empty ache in his ribs, and he doesn’t know if the impulse is born of their mating bond or if it’s a Bucky Barnes original.

He's not sure he wants to know. He wants to stop thinking.

He pulls back, slow and sweet, letting Steve’s blood-hot cock drag heavily along his soft, greedy tongue and eager lips. He looks up, panting and flushed, and finds Steve with glazed eyes and a hungry set to his mouth.

“Fuck my face,” Bucky says. “I want to fucking choke on it.”

Steve growls.

Bucky’s hole clenches tight, dripping slick.

Steve’s free hand grabs his face, and he’s got a big palm, wide enough to cover the whole side of Bucky’s face. It’s a gentle grip, possessive but sweet, except for the thumb that slides between his lips and hooks over his teeth, tugging down.

Bucky opens up, lets Steve feed him his cock, and he thought he’d have to goad Steve, maybe reassure him, but Steve just fucking goes for it, pushing the fat head past Bucky’s constricting throat.

Bucky digs his nails into the soft flesh of Steve’s hips and gets those last two inches rammed down his throat.

He blinks away tears, dazed and hot all over. Steve’s petting his face, gently patting his cheek, stroking the hair from his forehead—tracing his lips where they’re stretched tight around Steve’s insane girth. They’re soothing touches, coaxing Bucky to close his eyes and sink deep, nearly hugging Steve around the hips as he hangs off his cock.

Steve whispers something, and Bucky can’t quite hear him past the rush of his own blood, but he knows that tone, knows its sweet, and reacts with a soft, shuddering whine that makes the hand in his hair clench tight. Steve pulls out, slower than he pushed in, and Bucky lets him go with lazy little flicks of his tongue and a wet, messy kiss to the tip. He swallows, drags in gulping breaths, and opens his mouth at the touch of Steve’s thumb, taking him in again, deep and then deeper. 

Steve fucks his mouth with long, slow thrusts, easy and relentless; he strokes Bucky’s hair and wipes the tears off his face while he pushes brutally past the choking, the burning, burying himself so deep that Bucky knows he’ll be left feeling the imprint of it in his throat for days, weeks.

“That’s it,” Bucky hears at one point, Steve’s soft words penetrating his golden haze. “You’re perfect, sweetheart.”

Steve is gentle and devastating. Bucky shudders sweetly into pieces.

And after, once he’s swallowed every drop and sucked wetly on Steve’s head for a lingering taste, Bucky’s pulled to his feet and kissed all sweet, and Steve’s touching him _everywhere_ , motions taking on a frenzy that was lacking even when he was balls-deep in Bucky’s mouth.

He flattens his palm over Bucky’s groin, finding the wetness there.

“Sweet fuck,” he swears against Bucky’s mouth. “You—”

He squeezes, tight and _mean_ , and Bucky damn near levitates, keening high and clawing at Steve’s shoulders.

Steve other hand grabs his thigh and yanks it up, and it’s instinct to climb on him, to press his electric body to the heat Steve’s radiating. Steve holds him securely with one arm and steers his head into a kiss with the other, and it’s rough and biting, the reverence of earlier sharpening into ravenous hunger.

His back is slammed to a wall, and Steve’s teeth sink into the soft underside of his jaw, the pain bright and piercing before it’s soothed with hot suction. Bucky seizes hot, thrumming with the memory of being fucked mad just like this. Steve growls, Bucky’s flesh still in his teeth, and he sticks his hand down the back of Bucky’s jeans.

It’s a bad angle, but the denim tears like wet tissue; his underwear’s ripped off along with it.

Bucky clenches his thighs around Steve’s hips like that’ll stop his hole from dripping right into Steve’s waiting palm.

“God,” Steve rasps, and he sounds like it’s hurting him, even though Bucky’s the one suddenly stuffed with two, thick fingers. He shouts, and Steve steals it from his mouth, kissing Bucky like he wants to swallow him whole, and his fingers slide in to the last knuckle, crooking wickedly, and Bucky _writhes_ , arching and twisting against the wall and Steve’s hulking body.

Steve tugs at his rim, and he’s wet and aching and _hungry_ —

“Daddy,” he sobs.

Steve groans and quiets Bucky with a hard, claiming kiss. When he pulls back, there’s red on his teeth and Bucky’s lips throb sweetly.

“That,” Steve growls, “is new.”

Despite the fire in his veins, Bucky musters a grin.

“Didn’t think you’d like it,” he purrs, leaning in to lick his own blood off Steve’s mouth. “But you do, don’t you?”

Steve snarls. The air’s thick with their mingled scents, live and lashing. They’ll have to leave a hefty tip for the housekeeper.

Steve yanks out his fingers, and Bucky’s left whimpering at the sudden, biting emptiness. Steve shuts him up with wet fingers sliding into his mouth, making the cuts on his lips sting as they’re stretched wide around those thick digits.

Bucky laps at his own slick, face burning. Steve has an unholy light in his eye.

He pulls out the fingers, but his mouth takes their place, tongue sliding in deep and twisting around Bucky’s tongue, and _no one’s_ meant to survive Steve fucking Rogers being this filthy. Bucky’s knees would give out, but he’s already wrapped tight around Steve, held up by his monstrous strength; he still wants to crawl into him, run through his blood, melt into his bones.

The kiss breaks and leaves Bucky dazed, until he’s bodily pried off Steve and thrown face-first on the bed, a pillar of heat pinning him to the mattress. They’re still too fucking clothed, but his ass is bare and so’s Steve’s dick, which nestles between his cheeks, hard again.

“Crazy,” Bucky whispers, yelping when Steve yanks him back by the hair.

“What was that, Buck?”

“ _Jesus_ , I meant your refractory period is crazy.”

Steve hums, radiating smug pride. He rolls his hips, cock sliding between Bucky’s cheeks, and fuck, he can hear it, the slick sounds, his hole dripping as if to coax Steve in for a joyride. Steve seems willing enough, rutting with intent, the head of his cock teasing Bucky’s aching hole with every other thrust.

Bucky spreads his legs as best as he can and pushes his ass up into it, clumsily matching the rhythm of Steve’s hips.

There’s a soft laugh, then lips brushing his shoulder, and Bucky can only groan when he’s pulled right into a messy kiss. Steve’s tongue swipes over his lips, wet and dirty, and Bucky opens up, tries to make it deep, but Steve just nips at his lip and pushes his face back down.

The heat pinning him vanishes, and Bucky shouts a complaint into his pillow before large hands push his thighs apart. The loud sounds of rending fabric fill the air. Bucky’s left bare from the waist down, the tattered remnants of his jeans still trapped under him.

Steve runs his palms up his calves, and Bucky shudders when they graze, feather-light, the thin skin on the inside of his knees. Steve’s mouth follows his hands, alternating between one leg and the other, all soft lips and sharp teeth.

Bucky trembles.

Teeth sink into his thigh, sucking viciously, and Bucky tries, on instinct, to close his legs and clench up, but Steve has other ideas and so does Bucky’s body. More slick trickles down his taint, over his balls, dampening the bed under him. He’s aching inside, soaked but _empty_ , and he wants to beg Steve to just fuck him, but Bucky doesn’t want to lose the sting of those teeth just yet. The pain sinks through his skin, into his bone, fissures of sweet heat eating him raw. 

Steve pays excruciating attention to damn near every patch of skin on the back of Bucky’s thighs. The scar on Bucky’s throat pulses in time with his throbbing bruises.

And Steve, he—

Bucky knew it was coming, he _knew_ , but the hands spreading his ass wide and the face pushing between his cheeks still make him scream.

“S-Steve!”

Steve laughs; Bucky doesn’t hear it so much as feel it tremble up into him.

And Bucky tries, helpless and hungry, to arch into it, but Steve’s hands, gentle until a moment ago, clamp down tight, pinning his hips to the bed. Bucky squirms ineffectually, kicking his legs and clawing at his pillow, but Steve doesn’t even budge, the overpowered bastard.

He _nuzzles_ into Bucky’s crack, kissing all sweet and soft over taut, sensitive skin, and his beard bristles, accidentally, over Bucky’s rim, and he sees stars, a writhing supernova.

“Please, please, _please_ ,” he chants, and his fingers finally sink into the pillow, tearing it right open.

Steve takes mercy on him and licks right in, and Bucky’s bursts into white and red.

Steve eats him out with hunger turned sharp and filthy—lips hot and wet, tongue twisting deep, teeth gentle and ever so deliberate. Molten heat shudders up his spine, damn near intolerable, and Bucky can’t help struggling, trying to arch away and push back at the same time, but it doesn’t matter anyway because Steve’s fingers are vice-tight, burning bruises into Bucky’s ass as he swallows him sweetly whole.

He comes apart, last round’s mess barely dried before he shoots off into the sheets, and Steve mouths at him the whole time, lips and tongue moving gently against Bucky’s hole, soothing him through the aftershocks. 

Even that’s too much, pleasure that’s so sharp it’s pain, but Bucky doesn’t quite have the will to make Steve stop. He lies there, jolting each time sensation spears through his gut, trembling until Steve’s done with his feast.

And then Bucky’s empty again, a different kind of ache making his gut knot up.

But Steve doesn’t go far, laying his body over Bucky’s. He’s lost his clothes—god knows when—and it’s glorious heat that presses into every inch of Bucky’s back, enveloping him.

“Like this,” he gasps, seized by an unfathomable urge to blurt it out.

“Hm?”

“Y-you.” It’s hard, though, to put thoughts into words, his tongue heavy and hot. “I, ah, I like how big you are.”

Steve makes a pleased, purring round, chest rumbling. It’s alpha bullshit, but in this moment, it’s fucking cute, and Jesus, Bucky’s fucked and he doesn’t even know if it’s just the goddamn bond wreaking havoc on his feelings.

“Not so bad yourself, sweetheart,” Steve says, hands gripping Bucky’s upper arms to give the muscle there a good, groping squeeze.

“S’ _why_ I like it,” Bucky huffs.

“Ah. I see. Need someone to put you in your place, don’t you, son?”

The sound Bucky makes is _inhuman_.

Steve, the wily bastard, uses that moment to shift his hips and slot his cock against Bucky’s ass. A hand pulls one cheek to the side, and Bucky goes very, very still as Steve’s cockhead slides over his hole. It catches on the rim, hot and _huge_ , but slides down, along his crack and brushing his balls. Just a little nudge and—

“This all you need?” Steve asks softly. “Want me to split you open, sweetheart?”

Bucky mewls, reaching blindly back with a hand. He finds Steve’s hair and grips tight, trying in vain to ground himself, but Steve catches his wrist with his free hand and pins it beside Bucky’s head, and oh, _oh_ , that’s good, the iron circle of his fingers keeping Bucky inside his skin.

Steve’s cock probes his hole again, and he ruts lazily for a breathless second before he lets go of Bucky’s ass to guide his cock into him. And it doesn’t matter how often Bucky’s done this, heat-drunk or sober, because Steve’s got a monster of a cock and it tears him right in two.

And Bucky fucking begs for it.

He’s sobbing by the time Steve bottoms out, stretched to the limits and overwhelmed, except Steve keeps _moving_ , rutting against Bucky like can fit a little more of himself into his clenching walls.

“Please, please,” he’s whining, barely recognizing his own voice. “So much, I _can’t_ , Ste—”

A palm covers his mouth, ripe with Bucky’s own scent. He tightens madly around Steve, swallowing a scream. Steve takes his hand away, fingers curving around Bucky’s jaw instead, deceptively gentle. He lifts Bucky’s head higher, until he can feel the strain in his neck.

“Easy, son,” Steve murmurs into his ear.

“Daddy,” Bucky whimpers, dazed and helpless, and he feels it, Steve’s hitched breath and the little jerk of his hips. Emboldened, he cries, “Daddy, please—”

Steve’s hand presses hard into his jaw, and Bucky cuts off with a hard, choking sound. He damn near expires on the spot when Steve wraps that hand around his throat with just enough pressure to be a threat.

“Good?” Steve asks, and Bucky shakes for him. “Nod if it’s good, Buck.”

Bucky nods—then again, and again, and—

“That’s enough now,” Steve says, warmly amused. “Good boy. That’s my boy.”

 _Fuck_ —

It’s a bit of a blur after that.

Steve fucks him, good and hard and deep, and Bucky falls apart for him, around him, and through it all, Steve’s hand is a white-hot beacon on his throat, keeping Bucky’s writhing mind contained in his burning flesh.

Steve’s knot pries him open even wider, finding his limits and _shattering_ them, and Bucky comes again, bursting into embers, held together by Steve’s knot in his ass and his hand on his throat.

And after—

After, Steve’s sweet as anything, kissing Bucky’s nape and shoulders, nuzzling into his hair, mouthing the bruises he made; he steers clear of Bucky’s bonding scar, the way he refused to when he was lost to his rut, but Bucky bares his throat anyway, giving over all of himself.

Steve makes that happy, rumbling sound, chest trembling against Bucky’s back.

“You alright?” he asks, voice two shades deeper than usual, which is a threat against world order, probably.

“M’gonna live on your knot,” Bucky says very firmly.

Steve laughs. His shaking body makes his knot tug at Bucky’s rim, gentle but hot, the pressure all-consuming.

“Ssh, Buck, it’s alright, I’ve got you,” Steve murmurs, voice pitched low and soothing, and Bucky sinks into it.

He doesn’t even have the excuse of a heat.

“You—” He scrambles to find something, anything to distract himself from the warm, effervescent _thing_ in his chest. “You weren’t this filthy last time.”

It comes out more accusing than he wants, but Steve, bless him, only laughs, more contained this time.

“Wasn’t quite in my right mind last time,” he says. “Time before that, I didn’t remember our first cycles. Different now, isn’t it? You’re a filthy fuck, sweetheart. Can’t leave you high and dry.”

Bucky fucking loves—

Nope, no, bad joke. Abort.

He settles for turning his head, straining his neck for a kiss that Steve eagerly gives him, mouth still tasting like Bucky’s slick.

-

Wanda takes one look at the two of them, sniffs the air, and visibly fights off the urge to put her face in her hands.

“Are you sure,” she asks delicately, “that you want to break the bond?”

Steve’s face is very, very red. Bucky stares at that to distract himself from his own mortification.

“Yes,” he squeaks eventually. “Yes, very sure, we’re, uh—”

He turns helplessly to Steve, who’s already nodding, expression remarkably stoic despite being redder than a freshly spanked ass.

“We’re sure,” he says in a voice that Bucky’s come to associate with Captain fucking America. “Please, ma’am.”

“Ma’am,” Wanda says, laughing. “None of that, Steve, please. I’m just checking. I’d like both of you to lie down—across the bed, so I can kneel on the floor and touch you.”

“There’s a chair—”

“No, no. Better this way. Come.”

 _This is what I want_ , Bucky reminds himself. And it is, there’s no doubt, just—

What is he getting himself into, placing his mind in the hands of a witch with powers of highly dubious origin? A look at Steve says he’s thinking along the same lines. He catches Bucky’s eyes and smiles, trying to be reassuring and not quite making it. Bucky creeps closer, and Steve mirrors him, and their hands brush. Wanda, already kneeling by the bed, is studiously avoiding looking at them.

Bucky allows himself to grab Steve’s hand and squeeze it tight, deriving a dangerous amount of comfort from the way Steve returns the pressure with equal desperation.

-

Bucky’s been shot, stabbed, burned, cut, and—on one memorable occasion—drowned. His arm’s been blown off, and he’s stayed conscious when they wired a metal limb into his brain.

None of it compares.

He screams and screams and screams and screams, and Steve’s right beside him, _howling_ , but they’re still crying for each other.

-

Wanda leaves at some point.

Bucky, curled in on himself with Steve wrapped around him like a shield, can’t even bring himself to lift his head. He has the vague thought that he should talk to her, sort out the rest of the payment, but the numbers are hazy, and he can’t move his lips, lift his tongue.

His head hurts.

Steve’s arms tighten around him, pulling him closer, and Bucky realizes he’s whimpering, soft little cries spilling out of him. He tries to hold it in, tries to _think_ —

-

It takes two days.

It’s worse than even his worst heat. Bucky wakes up from restless sleep, burning hot and with his fingers digging into his chest, metal bruising flesh in a vain attempt to find the other heart that beat beside his. Steve’s the one who pries his hand away, gentle even though he’s hurting too, and he’s the one who holds Bucky when he breaks into quiet tears.

Other times, it’s Steve who wakes in a frenzy, clawing at his throat, where the newly dead bonding mark burns, red and raw. Bucky manages, most of the time, to pull his hand away before it can tear open skin, drawing Steve’s face into the crook of his throat so he can muffle his silent sobs.

It doesn’t make sense. They never _wanted_ this. They were strangers, not lovers.

But Bucky’s aching, heart and soul cleaved in half, and Steve’s a trembling wreck in his arms, and it’s never been about what they wanted, has it?

-

“What now?” Bucky asks, a long eternity later, distantly aware that they’ve been here before in what now feels like another lifetime.

Steve was the one asking the question then, and Bucky had an easy answer, but now Bucky’s voice shakes on the words, and Steve’s not quite looking him in the eye.

“I don’t know,” he says.

They return to uncomfortable silence. They’re both in bed; Bucky doesn’t think either of them have left it except to use the bathroom or choke down some of the energy bars they both kept at hand. It’s not nearly enough for their metabolism, and it shows. Steve’s eyes are bloodshot, his pale hair hanging over his forehead in lifeless clumps. And the last time Bucky looked in a mirror, he was paler than a vampire, with deep circles under his eyes.

Well, maybe it’s not just the food.

“Was it like this?” Bucky asks quietly. “Before, when you…before.”

Steve’s silent for long enough that Bucky’s certain he’s overstepped, but then he answers, looking anywhere but at Bucky.

“No. I guess I slept through the worst of it.”

 _Slept_. That’s sure a sanitized way of putting it. A long sleep under cold, dark ice. Bucky fights back a shudder and reaches, unthinkingly, for Steve’s hand, relieved beyond words when it’s caught and held.

Steve’s still not looking at him. His expression doesn’t match his words. He doesn’t look like a man who believes he ‘slept’ through the worst.

Bucky leans in, pressing his cracked lips to Steve’s forehead. It’s warm, and he wants to linger—he shouldn’t, of course, they’ve fucked around enough, but—

Steve sighs, his free arm wrapping around Bucky, and it’s the most natural thing in the world to dip his head and slot their mouths together. Steve kisses back, soft and chaste, and this is how you kiss goodbye, isn’t it?


	3. all these beautiful laughs and beautiful thighs (they always kept me up at night)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s an odd comfort in the emptiness under his breastbone, in the way his blood doesn’t sing to another’s—there’s nothing left to be ripped away.
> 
> The worst is past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very tiny chapter to wrap things up and pave the way for the final installment!

Fury chews him out for running off and tries to grill him for answers. Steve’s too numb to argue with him and not nearly numb enough to answer his questions, so he sits there and listens to him rant until Fury trails off, which is so wildly out of character that Steve actually blinks, focusing a little.

“Get the fuck out of my sight, Rogers,” Fury snaps, and Steve doesn’t stick around for him to change his mind.

In his bathroom, he stares at his own reflection and understands why Fury was unsettled.

His eyes are empty.

He looks away, and another pair of blue eyes flit into his mind. Would Bucky’s eyes also be so…haunted? They weren’t when Steve left him in that room. He was sad but relieved too, and Steve felt the same, then, because the last thing he wanted was to tie an unwilling omega to him.

Days pass, then weeks, and he learns to breathe through a knotted chest. But the difference is what trips him up every damn time.

He and Peggy had been head over heels in love and bonded for a handful of months when he crashed the plane, her voice still ringing in his head. He died with an apology on the tip of his numb tongue, except he didn’t die and woke up in a strange world with too many smells, his chest _hollow_. He told S.H.I.E.L.D. it was likely the seventy years of sleep that had triggered such a violent rut, but Steve knows the truth. It was his broken bond—dead for years but a raw shock to his system—that threw him headlong into that red haze.

Bucky’s been burning in his blood for close to a year now, but he was a stranger and didn’t want Steve, not like that. His absence still leaves Steve staggering around like a corpse. Breaking the bond was supposed to make this _end_ , but he thinks of Bucky and aches, his flesh and his heart throbbing like open wounds. And he shouldn’t, god, he shouldn’t, but he thinks of it anyway, that first night in London—Bucky smirking on his knees and writhing on the bed, beautiful and wild. It was easy, perfect, and what was it that Bucky said, in what now feels like another lifetime?

_If we’d met in any other way—the invasion, some random mission, in a fucking coffee shop, I’d have liked to see if we could be something._

They didn’t though. They met like this.

Steve’s survived a broken bond with an alpha he loved. He’ll survive one with an omega he barely knows. And there’s an odd comfort in the emptiness under his breastbone, in the way his blood doesn’t sing to another’s—there’s nothing left to be ripped away.

The worst is past.

-

Steve doesn’t tell S.H.I.E.L.D. why he disappeared from Naples and continues to lather himself in industrial-grade scent blockers. They give him a headache and don’t do much to fool his own nose, but the other agents don’t have the dubious luxury of enhanced senses. He started using the blockers to stop avoiding questions because even S.H.I.E.L.D.’s oh-so-serious spies apparently couldn’t shake off the hero worship, but now, it’s just to hide that he’s freshly unbonded.

It gets easier with time. Fury stops frowning at him, and Agent Rollins stops flinching away from his eyes.

He meets a man in D.C.—sees him, smells his sweet scent, and finds himself looking, breathing, long and hard. He tries to flirt, badly, but Sam’s nice and funny and pokes at Steve likes he sees the man, not the machine, and he figures he’s made a friend, all on his own without alien invasions to bond them together. He tells Sam that, once, blurts it out without thinking, and Sam laughs, loud and unfettered, and Steve stares and thinks—maybe, _maybe_.

Steve lives.

And then the robots attack.

-

In the aftermath, they recover in the tower. It wasn’t a bad mission, but then, their closest metric for comparison is the Chitauri invasion, when Clint was brainwashed and Tony damn near died. This time, they’re all fine save for some bruises and a sole broken arm—Clint, tripping on a severed robot head _after_ the fight and falling down two stories.

The robots were some madman’s lofty bid at supervillaindom—and is that a thing, now? The world has superheroes, so there are supervillains coming out of the woodwork?

Steve doesn’t ask; his teammates, who are in various states of inebriation or unconsciousness, are unlikely to answer anyway. At least they’ve all kindly ignored the two roaring white elephants in the room.

He makes his escape when Tony, in the middle of an oddly intense argument with Natasha, resolves to show her how to _really_ give a lap dance, with Bruce as his wide-eyed and painfully sober guinea pig. Steve quietly makes himself scarce before there’s either a code green or Tony’s nether regions burned into his brain.

On the elevator, he’s surprised to find himself smiling, his cheeks almost hurting. He doesn’t have the excuse of alcohol. He’s just…happy, for now, for the night.

“Hey, JARVIS?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Let me know if any of them are about to get themselves killed.”

“Of course, Captain.” There’s a pause and then, “What about broken bones, Captain?”

JARVIS sounds amused. Can AIs be amused? Is that a thing now?

“Nah,” Steve says after a moment. “They can take it.”

Amused silence now. Steve’s got some questions for Tony.

His floor’s dark and conspicuously empty. It used to light up automatically when Steve—or anyone—stepped inside, but that was one of the first things Steve disabled. The dark is comfortable; he can see perfectly, and like this, the empty corners are a little less daunting.

Steve’s not used to living alone, is the thing. He had his ma until he was eighteen, and then he had roommates, sometimes a good deal more of them than he wanted. For a while, there was Archie.

Then the war. He wasn’t alone there—miserable, confused, and terrifyingly in love, but not alone.

A part of him wants to go back down to the light and the laughter and Tony’s bad life decisions. He stands, one hand holding the door open, but he can’t make his feet move.

Behind him, the elevator pings. Steve stops breathing.

There are shuffling footsteps, then—

“W-why are you standing there like that?”

Bucky sounds drunk; his voice is strained, trembling faintly, with the effort to enunciate every word. Steve smiles in spite of himself.

“This is my apartment, Buck,” he says softly.

He hears Bucky move closer, grumbling with the frustration of a drunk man trying and failing to hold himself together. Fingers curl over Steve’s shoulder, their warmth sinking through his thin t-shirt to brand the flesh underneath.

Goosebumps soar down his arms.

He turns around, and Bucky nearly falls into him. They’re almost the same height, but Bucky does that thing where he looks up at Steve from under his lashes, blinking his damnably pretty eyes all sweet and innocent.

“Bucky,” Steve says, and even he can’t tell whether it sounds fond or exasperated. “What are you doing here?”

“Drinking,” Bucky says very seriously.

“What are you doing _here_?”

Steve gives him a little shake, more playful than violent, but Bucky widens his eyes and clutches his arms and practically sinks into Steve, and god, he smells so—

He steps backward into the apartment, practically dragging Bucky with him, shutting the door by pinning Bucky to it. That earns him more of that wide-eyed stare, and this time, there’s nothing hazy about it at all.

“I wouldn’t have touched you if you were actually drunk,” Steve murmurs.

Bucky blinks. A corner of his mouth curves up. Nothing else changes; he’s still limp against Steve, a pillar of heat between the door and his body.

“What gave it away?” he asks, voice steady.

“I know what the serum does, Bucky.”

“Well, maybe mine’s different.”

Steve just looks at him until Bucky laughs and breaks the stare, shrugging unrepentantly.

“You’re a good actor,” Steve says because the alternative is tipping Bucky’s face up and kissing him breathless.

“I was one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s best, you know.”

“Mmhm. I could see that today. You did good work out there, kid.”

There’s no mistaking the pink that creeps up Bucky’s throat, but he scowls fiercely at Steve the next moment. Steve wants, desperately, to press his lips to the furrow of his brow and trail it down and down and down.

“How did you know about the attack?” Steve asks before Bucky dramatically protests being called a kid and Steve’s compelled to do—things.

“A little spider told me.” Bucky smirks. “If Fury asks…”

“None of my business. You’re an Avenger. That’s all I care about.”

“He’s gonna be pissed his little pet project got so out of hand.”

Bucky sounds viciously gleeful about that, and Steve finds himself matching his smirk.

“Don’t know what he was expecting, putting us all together. But you’re not here to talk shop.”

“No, I’m here to be pinned against the door, apparently. And here I thought you weren’t some alpha brute.”

Steve doesn’t growl but only barely. “And where would you like to be instead, pal?”

“Well, I’m sure you have a nice room for me. Big bed.” He cocks his head, smiles. “Maybe yours. “

“Bucky,” Steve sighs, as if he didn’t know from the moment he heard the elevator open, “we went to all that trouble to stop precisely this.”

“No, not this.” Bucky slides a hand up Steve’s chest, the flat of his palm pressing hard over where Steve’s heart beats a frantic rhythm. “ _This_ is what we wanted to stop. And we did.”

“This is a bad idea. You know this is a bad idea.”

“You’re the one pinning me to a door. Remember how that worked out last time?”

“ _Bucky_.”

“What do you want me to say, Steve? Of course it’s a bad fucking idea. But I took an alpha home last week and bodily threw him out of my bed. I changed my mind mid-blow because I kept thinking of _you_ , and the fucker was peev—oh, fuck’s sake, stop growling, you animal.” Steve swallows the rest of that sound, but damage done and Bucky knows it. “Had any better luck?”

“I’m not discussing my sex life with you.”

“You haven’t _had_ a sex life without me.”

And Steve wants to deny that for both their sakes, but he’s not the best liar and worse when it’s someone he cares about, and the way Bucky’s smiling at him, knowing and maybe a little sad, kills even the desire to try.

“Still a bad idea, Buck.”

“You’re giving me mixed signals, Steve. Stared at me after the fight and all night like you wanted to eat me alive, and now you’ve got me right here and you haven’t even kissed me.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Steve says helplessly. “You know that.”

Bucky strokes his face, fingertips gentle and almost reverent over the planes of Steve’s face, and his bones turn molten.

“I know,” Bucky whispers. “It’s okay. It doesn’t have to be complicated anymore. No bonds, no strings. Just us.”

“Won’t work.”

“Says who?”

 _There are already strings_ , Steve thinks, vicious and desperate. _They lead to you, and I’m dancing to them_.

But he says nothing at all, and Bucky smiles, sweet and edged with sin; the sight could make angels fall, and Steve’s painfully human in all the ways that count. Bucky’s thumb slides over his lips, and Steve kisses it softly, heart clenching when Bucky’s eyes soften.

“Kiss me, Steve.”

Steve swallows his protests and his good sense, and he swallows Bucky too, the night’s simmering hunger roaring to life.

**Author's Note:**

> Drop me a line if you can!


End file.
